All are, in fact, meaningless
in one sense, 
as long as there is
death
to snicker at them; still, there are times
when a branch grows just long enough
to scrape the wall when it comes down

and that scratch lasts a while,
at least till the next rain,
and everyone points at the mark and says,
“Remember that?  Remember 
when that fell and there was that crash
and we thought the whole house
was about to fall?  Man, we dodged a bullet
that day.”  

And then those people move, or die,
or lose their minds, and no one
mentions that branch again —

but somewhere the wood decays
or is burned and the vapors rise from it
and are inhaled by someone who says,
“Hmmm…I think I’ll go for it.  What have I
got to lose, at least for myself —
and it might mean something to someone,
after all.”

The branches over your head all began at a trunk
and grew out.  The trunk started from a hole in the ground
and grew up.  The meaningless goal
grew up and out and reached and failed, 
or left a transient mark, or lasted eons.  
It’s all the same, all as pointless as any other endeavor;
in the end, it’s the growing that counts,
and not the place where it all ended.